The thing on the doorstep, my Howard Phillips lovecraft, read by Chris Stewart.

It is true that I have sent six bullets through the head of my best friend.

Yet I hope to show by this statement that I am not his murderer.

At first, I shall be called a madman.

Matter-than-the-man I shot in his cell at the Arkham Sanitarium.

Later, some of my readers will weigh each statement, correlate it with the known facts,

and ask themselves how I could have believed otherwise,

then as I did after facing the evidence of that horror, that thing on the doorstep.

Until then, I also saw nothing but madness in the wild tales I have acted on.

Even now, I ask myself whether I was misled or whether I am not mad after all.

I do not know.

But others have strange things to tell of Edward and Asanath Derby.

And even the Stalin police are at their wits end to account for that last terrible visit.

They have tried weakly to concoct a theory of a ghastly jest or warning by discharged

servants, and they know in their hearts that the truth is something infinitely more terrible

and incredible.

So I say that I have not murdered Edward Derby, rather I have avenged him, and in so doing

purge the earth of a horror whose survival might have loosed untold terrors upon all mankind.

There are black zones of shadow close to our daily paths, and now and then some evil

soul breaks a passage through.

When that happens, the man who knows must strike before reckoning the consequences.

I have known Edward, Pikmin Derby, all his life.

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